


Home

by Kivrin



Series: Liminal Spaces [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/pseuds/Kivrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after the events of "Three Conversations in Liminal Spaces," Wesley makes another visit to his parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

Wesley had secured a seat by the window, and at irregular intervals no less than five minutes apart he allowed himself to scan the drive before returning his full attention to the conversation, if indeed the sequence of declarative statements from his father and approving grunts from Mr. Fredericks could be called a conversation. Mother sat very erect, nodding intelligently from time to time and most likely planning the disposition of annuals in the south garden when she wasn't trying to telepathically instruct Emma Fredericks in the responsibilities of a lady asked to pour at tea. Emma herself, a long-faced young woman of twenty-one, was ignoring the tea cart in favor of shooting nervous glances at Wesley and wary ones at her father. What _she_ was nervous about, Wesley couldn't imagine. He had to remind himself continually that he also had nothing to fear. The peculiar smell of the Big Study, a compound of books, beeswax, Darjeeling tea and an ancient echo of tobacco, always tightened his shoulders and tied his tongue, but it was the purest foolishness. He wasn't going to be called to recite before Father's desk, and no matter how he might stutter he was not going to be sent anywhere, for all that he might wish to sink through the floor.  


He allowed himself to look out the window again, then shifted his left foot on the wicker hassock Father had reluctantly allowed to be carried in from the conservatory. The movement woke all the aches in his body to new heights of complaint, and the soft creak of the cushion sounded in one of Father's pauses, making him turn to frown at Wesley.

"Why _Giles_, of all people?" Father demanded without preamble.

"What about him?" Wesley asked. He mentally congratulated himself on not appending "sir" to the question or allowing his voice to shrink and tremble as it too often did in this room.

"Hmph. I suppose the question should be why he'd call you for an urgent translation, and be determined enough to fetch you even though you'll be an utter liability in the field."

"It's only a sprain," Wesley replied evenly. "And a few bruises."

"Of course, in these times one can't be as stringent." Father looked to Fredericks. "Who'd ever have thought, when we ruled to allow Giles to resume his training, that he'd be head of field operations? "

"_You_ didn't vote in his favor. Sir." Wesley dropped his eyes under Father's piercing gaze. "I remember that distinctly."

"Though you apparently have some difficulty recalling that the internal debates of the Disciplinary Committee are strictly confidential and not to be discussed before laymen. I beg your pardon, Miss Fredericks, and lay_women_."

Emma flushed and ducked her head. Mother nodded, still smiling faintly, probably thinking of roses.

"As the damage has been done, I will say that it has turned out better than I believed possible. The case is a valuable example of the successful function of the Committee. Well worth citing, wouldn't you say, Fredericks?"

"Indeed, well worth citing, well worth." Fredericks nodded.

Wesley looked away. This time he was rewarded with a glimpse of movement through the new leaves of the old beeches that lined the drive. A moment later a black Jaguar convertible pulled up before the house with Rupert Giles at the wheel. As Wesley watched, Rupert rose up from the low seat like Liam Neeson striding out of the loch in _Rob Roy_, albeit fully dressed in denim, Doc Martens, and a dark-green jumper under a corduroy jacket.

"_Wesley_," Father said impatiently.

Wesley jumped. "Yes. Sorry. Yes. Er, pardon?"

"What the devil are you looking at?"

"R- ah, Mr. Giles. Has arrived." Wesley swallowed.

Mother reached for the bell, but there were already voices in the hall, and in a moment Rupert was in the room, bringing with him a breath of the cool spring day outside. "Roger," he said, nodding first to Father, then to Mother. "Mrs. Wyndham Pryce. I'm sorry to barge in like this." His tone, while perfectly civil, left no doubt that the sentiment was pure politeness. "A rather tricky prophecy's come up and I need to consult with Wesley."

Father stiffened palpably at the imposition, and perhaps only Wesley noticed the effort he made to keep his own voice even. "Of course, Rupert. My library is of course at the Council's disposal. What prophecy is this?"

"I'm afraid that's strictly need-to-know. I do apologize for upsetting the family reunion, but time is of the essence. Pryce?" He turned to Wesley.

"I'm quite ready, Giles." Wesley took his borrowed cane from where it lay on the windowsill and rose carefully, gritting his teeth to keep from wincing at how the movement hurt his bruised ribs. "My bag is by the door."

When Wesley had reached the middle of the room, Father said to Rupert, "Wesley did tell you, didn't he, that he's lamed himself in an heroic struggle with the first-floor landing?"

"Those upper treads are slippery," Mother put in quickly.

"No more so than they've been for the past thirty-five years."

"As usual, Pryce didn't burden the conversation with irrelevant details." Rupert's hand hovered near Wesley's elbow for a moment before he extended it to Father. "Again, my apologies. We'll be out of your way now." When they had shared a frosty handshake, he held the door for Wesley and then led the way through the hall to the front door, which still stood ajar. "Where's your bag?" he asked Wesley, in a softer tone.

"At the base of the coat tree." Wesley pointed with his stick. "The ankle's not so bad," he added. "I just wanted to stay off it while I could, so it would heal faster. I can..."

"I've got it." Rupert slung the strap over his shoulder. This time he did brush Wesley's arm with his free hand. "Thank you, Mrs. Davies," he added to the housekeeper, who was still hovering in the hall, waiting to close the door behind them.

The marble steps were slippery, but Wesley refused Rupert's silent offer and crept down with only the aid of the cane, aware of the possible gaze from the study window. He sank into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief, then another as the powerful car roared to life.

"What language is it in?" Wesley asked, when they turned out of the drive and Rupert began to pick up speed in earnest.

"What?"

"The prophecy, what _language_?" he shouted over the wind.

"No prophecy."

"What?"

"No prophecy." Rupert grinned. "Made it up." When Wesley kept staring his face stiffened and he looked to the road again. "I missed you," he said. "And I thought you might not mind. I'm sorry."

"You're... stop the car," Wesley said, after a moment.

"I'm sorry. I'll turn round."

"No. You have to stop the car, because it's bloody difficult to kiss you while you're driving." He laid his hand over Rupert's on the gearshift, beaming like a fool. "And I do believe I must kiss you."

***

"I'd have fetched you sooner, if you'd told me," Rupert said. They were back in his London flat, Wesley sprawled on the sofa with his feet in Rupert's lap to have the bad ankle wrapped. "All those stairs can't have been doing you any good."

Wesley rubbed his good foot over Rupert's thigh, the worn denim soft as chamois against his skin. "Doesn't matter now." With his toes he plucked at the hem of Rupert's henley shirt.

Rupert chuckled low in his throat. "_Stop_ that," he scolded lightly. "I'm attempting a medical operation." He brushed a fingertip over the sole of Wesley's foot, grinning when Wesley twitched. "Hold still." He unwound the elastic bandage.

"Thank you," Wesley said. Rupert's touch was firm and gentle, his hands warm.

"It's nothing. Now, you're to keep off this for the rest of the night." He fastened the bandage. "Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," Wesley answered, with some surprise. He realized, when he thought of it, that he'd eaten almost nothing that day, and very little over the preceding forty-eight hours in his father's house.

"What do you feel like?" Rupert kept one hand cupped around Wesley's heel and the other around the ball of his foot. "I have got a nice pork loin to do up with apricots."

"Would you mind something less formal? Beans on toast would be fine, really, or a tin of soup and toasted cheese."

"Cheese and onion pie, and tomato soup?"

Wesley nodded. Reluctantly he lifted his feet to let Rupert get up. "If you bring me a cutting board I can chop the onions."

"And get onion all over my sofa? I think not." Rupert collected a few cushions and put two under Wesley's foot. "If you're still awake when it's relevant, you can grate the cheese." He motioned Wesley up and put the third cushion under his head.

"Ow, no.." Wesley fumbled for the pillow. "Ribs, flat is better..."

Rupert whisked it away. "Of course. I'm sorry." He frowned. "You're sure you don't want anything better than nurofen?"

"I'm sure. Perhaps tomorrow, when I'll have to move about to get to work." He smiled up at Rupert, trying to lighten the frown. "I'm all right."

Rupert looked unconvinced. "All right," he said skeptically, before padding off to the kitchen.

Wesley allowed himself to sink into the sofa cushions. He imagined he could smell California on them, sun and desert dust and air conditioning. "Do you ever," he began, and then stopped.

"Mm?" Rupert called, over the sound of chopping.

"Do you ever miss America?"

Rupert was quiet so long that Wesley began to think he hadn't heard the question. "At times," he said at length. "Do you?"

"At times." Wesley rubbed the green plush of the upholstery. "I miss the distance, at times."

"Mm." A smell of onions wafted through the flat along with the faint hissing sound of frying. A moment later Rupert appeared in the doorway, a half-apron tied over his clothes, his face still serious. "I'm glad you came home."

"I'm glad you came to fetch me." Wesley smiled at him. "Home?" he added, unable to keep a slight interrogative lilt from his voice.

Rupert smiled back. "Home."


End file.
